The Call
by Kathryn Claire O'Connor
Summary: Clint has a mission; the Black Widow's just finished one. There's just something different about the girl in that hotel room, though - something that doesn't quite match who he thought the Black Widow would be. And now there's a call to be made - follow his orders... or consider another option... And even if he does consider it... will she? *pre-Avengers two-shot*
1. Chapter 1

**This turned out to by about twice as big as I thought it would be, so this is the first of two chapters. I found a little writing challenge in a book I have, the first paragraph of the story popped into my head, and words just kept coming from there (I love it when that happens). Okay, shutting up now. Enjoy!:)**

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Normal people just used scopes. Coulson made sure to tell Clint this. Frequently. Often times vehemently. Coulson claimed it was safer with one. Clint said he did better work without one. And he really did; everyone knew that he could see better from far away.

So it wasn't like he _had _to get closer to his target in order to kill her, he just kind of… wanted to. This was the famous Russian feme fatal, Black Widow, after all, and Clint was… curious. He had been staring intently at the window of her empty hotel room from a rooftop a number of houses away, and when the moment came that she stepped into that room, he couldn't help but employ his zip line to get him to a closer roof – and a better view.

At first glance, Black Widow – Natasha Romanoff, or Natalia Romanova, really, but it was better not to think of a mark by their Christian name, American or Russian variant – appeared to be in her early, maybe even mid, twenties. Clint watched through the window as she casually shrugged off a gray trench coat and threw it across the back of a chair, revealing a blood-spattered blue dress.

So she had been at work tonight too…

Next, Widow plopped – actually _plopped_ with none of the grace that she was so well-known for – down into the chair and made quick work of removing from her feet a pair of murderously spiked black heels before throwing the shoes hatefully against the opposite wall. After a moment of feet massaging that Clint would bet was well-deserved, Widow stood in the middle of the room and unzipped the sequined party dress she was wearing, sliding it down until it landed in a pool around her feet.

Clint watched, as utterly unashamed as ever, as she went over to her tiny ready-to-go-at-any-moment suitcase and pulled out a hot pink sweatpants and sweatshirt set, pulling the clothing on. She went and stood in front of the mirror then, painstakingly pulling out every bobby pin from her elaborate up-do.

Hawkeye was already becoming a little intrigued by this version of the Widow that was emerging in his very line of sight. She wore hot pink swear suits and appeared, of all the silly things, to be rather tender-headed.

He caught himself thinking that it was rather a pity that he was going to have to kill her.

But when she started removing her makeup, his feeling of pity became one of downright nausea. As layer upon layer was removed from her face, he realized that this was no twenty-something woman. The ever-so-famous, dangerous assassin Black Widow could not have been any older than eighteen years old.

And he was supposed to put an arrow through her eye, just like a good hunter might do to a flighty deer. Hunt and eliminate; that was his job. But he was ready to slap money down on the fact that Natasha Romanoff – no, just "Black Widow" – would not be one to flee. She would fight back and kill him without a second thought if the opportunity was presented to her.

Yet Clint found himself moving in even closer to that hotel room window – and not necessarily so that he could get a better shot, either. Natasha – Black Widow – was distracted for this second with peering into the mirror as she removed her makeup, leaning towards the mirror, neck exposed as she titled her head to catch the light just right. Prone. Relaxed to the point of careless. He should do it. He should take the shot, and he should do it _now_ – but he didn't.

He imagined doing it, though, for just a split second. Cocking the arrow in his bow and releasing it with precise aim towards Natasha's – the Black Widow's – neck. He could practically feel how the bowstring would reverberate as the arrow sped towards its target. He could hear the sound the glass of the window would make as it shattered, and see with brilliant clarity the sparkling bits of glass as they sprayed upon impact. The brightness of those shards, however, would be no match for the light of terror in Natasha's – _Black Widow's! _– eyes in the half of a second before that arrow pierced her pale neck. The blood of a legend, only a shade darker than that of her hair, would splatter upon the mirror in front of her, and her lithe form would crumple to the floor, eyes still wide open with shock. Her life would be over, and Clint's job would be done. Simple.

Or not.

Because Clint realized suddenly that it wasn't just that he _wouldn't_ take the perfect shot he was being presented with… but, for the first time in his life, he _couldn't_.

There were too many unknown mysteries here… mysteries that he suddenly wanted to solve. Too much life left in this girl – and he just could not bring himself to be the one to snuff that life out. He wanted to get to know her – Natasha or Natalia, not the Black Widow. He wanted to find out what else was underneath the mask of the Widow, what truly comprised the person underneath. Because from what he saw on her face, he could tell that she was not truly _just _the heartless mercenary that everyone claimed she was. In this moment when she thought she was alone and let her guard down, she was a hurting, frustrated human being – part of her still a child – and Clint couldn't quite bring himself to make her life end on a note such as that. Not when she seemed to still have so much to offer.

The totally rogue thought slipped into his mind then: maybe he could harness those talents for SHIELD rather than wipe them off the planet entirely? Someone with Natasha's skill set would be invaluable to SHIELD – if her loyalties could be switched to the agency.

In the next moment, Clint was moving even closer until he was on the rooftop nearest her hotel room window. The least he could do was ask her, he rationalized. If she said no, then – and only then – he would have to reconsider killing her.

By the time he landed on that nearest rooftop, Natasha had moved from standing in front of the mirror, and his heart stuttered when he realized that she had opened the hotel room window and stuck her head out. She was staring straight up at him with an expression that was all at once open, guarded, curious, and kind.

"No need to stay out there, you know," she said sweetly, a thick Russian accent lacing her words. "Come in." Clint didn't move for a long minute, just stared at her until she repeated, "Come," and then added, "Don't act surprised. Surely you know that I could see you through the mirror."

So why hadn't _she _killed _him_? He knew he'd seen a gun in plain sight on the bedside table, and it was very accessible to her. The question got him moving, oddly enough, and Natasha moved further back into her room so that he could oblige her and spring in through the window. He landed on the carpet in a crouched position, staring warily into her blue eyes as he stood slowly.


	2. Chapter 2

"It was stupid of you to come so close," Natasha remarked casually, turning her back to him as she walked over to the chair and sat down. Ankles crossing, she gestured to the edge of the bed, playing the good little hostess, and Clint sat, taking her lead and ignoring the tension that was stretched across the room as tightly as his bowstring. "You were, I assume, sent to kill me."

"That was the original order," Clint admitted.

Natalia nodded, suddenly seeming regal even in a sweat suit. She'd slipped back into being the dauntless Black Widow, he realized.

"Who was it that sent you?"

"The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement Logistics Division."

"Ahh, SHIELD. I've had a couple of run-ins with your men before."

"That's funny, because once you met them, they were never seen again."

Natasha shrugged, replying, "Occupational hazard. One that brings us back to my original thought. You know what happened to your comrades, and nevertheless you have yet to carry out the order you were given. Why?"

"I think I might have a better idea," Clint confessed.

She raised her eyebrows at that, asking, "Better than your superiors' demands? That's not normal for a soldier like yourself, is it?"

"But they're just my superiors, not my masters. My brain still functions on its own, and I like my idea better."

She smiled at that before inquiring, "And what your idea, Agent… What is your name?"

"Hawkeye."

"Yes," Natasha nodded towards the bow that he was still clutching. "The archer. I've heard about you too."

"I'm honored," Clint drawled.

"Your idea, Hawkeye?"

"I want you to join SHIELD."

Natasha snorted. "You want me to defect to the Americans, forsake my country and those who raised me to join your side?"

"Or I could just kill you," Clint offered easily.

Natasha smiled at him in amusement, and that's when Clint realized that she knew he was unwilling to end her. She confirmed that she knew it when her reply was, "But you won't."

"Really?" Clint asked irritably. "Because the last time I checked, birds ate spiders."

Her cool smile didn't even twitch, but the look in her luminous blue eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly as she replied, "Not if the spider is given a chance to bit the bird first."

Her expression added, _And you gave me that chance, silly man._

Clint didn't like that she was right, so he brought them back to the point at hand, saying, "Look, I'm giving you a chance her. Defect, join SHIELD, and live, or don't, and be a loyal little Red Room Russian until the increasingly imminent end. You're choice."

"I've got a third option," she said, body tensing minutely as her eyes just barely narrowed.

Clint responded in kind, recognizing the body language of someone who was ready to strike.

And in the next second, strike she did. She whipped a knife out of the pocket of her trench coat and threw it with remarkable precision at Clint's right eye socket. He'd been ready for her, though, and rolled back onto the bed. He ended up with his back against the headboard, crouched on snowy white pillows with an arrow stung on his bow and pointed straight at her heart.

The knife embedded in the wall with Clint between it and her as he chastised lightly, "Now, that wasn't nice. Got any more options I should know about?"

"Just one," she answered, slipping her hand into her sweatpants' pocket with a cocky expression.

Clint watched, feeling first bewildered and then amused as the look in her eye turned to one of panic. He realized what her fourth option was within the same moment that she spotted the desired weapon. Her gun. On the bedside table – two feet from him and maybe ten from her.

They both froze for a second, staring at one another, before Clint lashed out and grabbed the gun.

He cocked his head to the side, studying her panicked, wide-eyed expression as they both realized she was at his mercy and he repeated, "So – options. Defect or die, and you had better decide while I'm still in a good enough mood to give you a second choice at all. Which won't be for long, because you just tried to kill me, I'm the only one who's armed now, and you can't get to your knife without going by me. Widow's off her A-game today, and I am now only just _barely _in the mood to give you a second chance. It's your call."

"Defect or die," Natasha mused, the superior tone she'd taken with him disappearing into the tense air. "To a 'loyal little Red Room Russian' they are the same thing."

Noting the defeated, uncertain tone of her voice, Clint asked carefully, "And what is defection to you?"

The silence that met the question stretched on for so long that he began to thing she wasn't going to answer at all.

Then she said softly, sounding every bit like any other frightened teenager, "A chance."

"Yes, I am taking a chance on you here," he agreed. "If you choose to defect. If you want to die, well, then it's just business as usual for me. Otherwise, this whole 'spare the mark thing' is kind of new to me."

"Well, I'm glad you chose me to go on the adventure with you," Natasha said almost teasingly, a wry twist coming onto her lips as she gathered her wits back about her.

"The first of many adventures, maybe?" he offered.

Her lips twitched with an impending sense of the adventure of which they spoke as she replied, "Perhaps."

Clint nodded and stood on the floor, taking that for her answer as he sat down on the window ledge through which he had come in and swung his legs over.

Looking back at her, he held his hand out to her, asking, "Are you coming, Natasha? I made my call when I didn't kill you at the opportunity; now you've got to make a call for yourself."

Natasha swallowed nervously, looking at him and then back at the impersonal hotel room containing her tiny suitcase, bloody clothes, and weapons. She snatched up the knife from the wall and gun from where Clint had left it on the bed – a misstep of his own if he'd believed she was actually going to take any chance he gave her to kill him by that point – and then joined him at the window. Natasha accepted Clint's outstretched hand and they took the leap together.

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**And there you have it; the end. What do you think? Reviews would make my day if you feel so inclined. Thanks!:)**


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